Return To Reality
by razzle-dazzle-me
Summary: AU Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry
1. Prologue

Summary: (AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry Alive!Parents

No slash. Subtle Harry/Bellatrix pairing, that may or may not be further developed. Takes place during summer after sixth year.

Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling. Hail.

**Return To Reality**

… … … …

… _the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord …_

… … … …

For some disconcerting reason the boy distinctly reminded Harry of a pig in a wig. "Getting a little on the podgy side, aren't we cousin?" he asked, cold green eyes glinting dangerously.

The fat boy only squealed in response, cowering further behind his parents in a pathetic attempt to hide himself. As if either could ever cover their son's obese mass.

The beefy man with a fat moustache, Harry presumed he was Vernon Dursley, drew himself up to his full height. Harry wasn't in the least intimidated, shifting his wand between sweaty fingers impatiently. "I want you both OUT," the man spat, flecks of spit flying from his mouth, glaring at the two teenagers. The protruding vein on his forehead pulsed, expanding, ready to burst. "I demand you unnatural freaks leave us NOW. We want nothing more to do with you!"

And still the Light thought these 'people' had a right to exist. It was laughable, ridiculous.

_Stupid. Muggle. Scum._

They repulsed him.

"But why should we leave, muggle?" Draco Malfoy sneered, raising one eloquent eyebrow. "We just got here."

Harry pointed his wand at the horse-faced woman, his grin lopsided. "You're only getting what you deserve," he added, taking a last swig of beer and tossing the can at their expensive television set. The usually pristine kitchen was in ruins. "And honestly, the world will be much better off without you."

_Let the fun begin._

"Crucio."

… … … …

… _born to those who have thrice defied him …_

… … … …

Sirius felt completely numb as he made his way up the garden path to Godrics Hollow, wishing for all he was worth it could be someone else - anyone else - to break the damned news. He walked as slow as he dared, booted feet patting lightly on the wet bricks winding a pathway up to the manor. The old, cracked oak door marking a side entrance was reached only too soon, and Sirius knocked quietly in a half-hearted hope no one would hear. In the time it took James to thump down the hall, Sirius had already backed away three steps.

"Padfoot!" James greeted with a boyish grin, swinging the door open wide.

Sirius just stood there, unable to move. His heart thudded hard in his chest, his mind racing, pounding. A thick silence overpowered them, drowning the Potters' overgrown garden in stifling unease. Sirius' stomach tossed violently. He didn't know what to say, how to find the right words. There was no enticing way to put it, really.

James frowned, wary. "Padfoot?" He took a small step forward, away from the warm comfort of his home, and slung an arm around Sirius's shoulder, shaking him. "What's wrong?"

_When all else fails there's always honesty._

"They've found him, James."

"Found him?" James asked, his voice thick with dread, disbelieving. "What do you mean exactly?"

Sirius cleared his throat and plunged on. There was nothing for it.

"Harry. The ministry has him."

… … … …

… _and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal …_

… … … …

Harry opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurred from the bright light overhead and his left forearm stinging painfully. _Had that been a dream? Yet it had felt so real…_

Harry moaned, his head buzzing. It would be his last morning ever with the Dursleys, but as relieving as that was, somehow the nightmare of torturing them to death with Draco Malfoy did not seem fitting. In a matter of hours he would be seventeen and leaving the house for what he hoped to be a very, very long time. He could hardly wait.

Putting his weight on his elbows, Harry sat up from the bed, glancing quickly around the dingy room. Sleep suddenly dissolved, his breath caught tight in his throat. Wherever he was, it was not the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive.

The room was dark and square, with not a single window to allow in any natural light. There were ugly grey, mouldy tiles stretched across the walls, reaching right up to the ceiling. Harry was reminded slightly of a very dirty hospital. He wore a set of itchy pale blue trousers and a plain nondescript T-shirt. A small door loomed in front of where he lay, but there was no handle or any hinges joining it to the walls.

With another stab of surprise, as Harry tried to rub the image of the room from his eyes - convinced he must still be dreaming, he found himself restrained to the bed with a handcuff on his left wrist.

"So, you're finally awake."

Harry jumped.

Unnoticed in the far corner sat a shadowed figure, perched on the edge of his seat.

Harry blinked and the man shuffled, moving further into his sight, the familiarly bemused expression catching Harry's memory.

"Shacklebolt? What's going on?" Harry stopped tugging on the handcuff, relieved that an Order member was there. Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing there, surely Harry would be alright now. _There's no need to panic_, Harry told himself crossly. _Yet._

"You've been captured, Mr Potter. A team brought you in earlier this morning."

Harry started panicking.

"Brought me in? Is this a joke?" Harry demanded, not in the slightest bit amused. His gaze flicked about the room again, searching for his wand. He couldn't help but feel just that bit more vulnerable without it at hand.

Kingsley ignored him, bringing out a copy of the_ Daily Prophet_ from a pocket of his robes. He leant back on his chair in the corner, content to read his paper and ignore the prisoner.

Harry's earlier relief at the Auror's presence had fled, screaming. Something was _very_ off.

"I haven't done anything wrong," Harry began again. "Why are you acting like this?"

"You can't fool me, Potter," Shacklebolt quipped back, raising his head slightly over the top of his paper and blinking at the wide emerald eyes. "Don't waste your breath trying."

"What?" Harry groaned, sitting up straighter in the bed. The sharp, stabbing pains of a migraine began to hurtle themselves about his temple mercilessly.

Shacklebolt took a deep breath, his patience wavering thin. Still not lowering his paper, he spoke over the top of the thick, large pages, his voice muffled and coarse. "You are a Death Eater, Potter. You have been captured and now you must pay the price for your sins."

"That's ludicrous!" Harry laughed bitterly. "Am I dreaming? Are you _mad_? Me? A Death Eater!"

"_Are_ you mad?" Kingsley snapped back. "Thank Merlin your parents aren't here to see this."

"My parents? Why would they be here?" Harry tugged again on the handcuff and added, rather sarcastically, "they died years ago, in case you've forgotten."

Shacklebolt rose instantly from his chair, his wand pointed straight to Harry's heart. He couldn't miss.

"Why would you say such a thing, Harry?"

Harry stared dumbly back at Shacklebolt, confusion clearly evident on his face. "I don't understand what's happening. I want to see someone…" _Who could he trust? There was obviously something very wrong with Kingsley… _"Remus. I want to see Remus Lupin."

"Lupin?" Shacklebolt repeated slowly, not making an move to lower his wand. "And why should he waste his time with the likes of you?"

"_What_?" Harry tugged again hard on the handcuff, with a slightly higher sense of urgency. This could not be happening - not now, not then._ Not ever._ He mustn't yet be awake, surely. "I am _not_ a Death Eater. I've never killed anyone, Kingsley, you know that. I haven't done anything!"

Shacklebolt sank slowly back into his chair, keeping his wand steady on Harry. "I wont talk to liars, Potter." With one last pressing glare, his wand was swiftly placed back into his pocket and his head disappeared again behind the newspaper.

Harry stared at the front page, starting at the large picture of himself. "Is that me? On the paper?"

Shacklebolt flipped the _Daily Prophet_ over briefly to look at the front page. "Yes."

Harry took a shuddered breath and smiled, trying to reassure himself. This wasn't happening, it simply couldn't be. Perhaps he was delusional? Crazed? Suffering from harsh post-traumatic stress? But maybe the paper could explain something … anything. "Can I read it?"

Shacklebolt held his gaze, plainly suspicious. "Why should I let you?"

"Please?" Harry looked at him wide eyed, his voice ebbed just a little bit desperately.

Shacklebolt ignored him for a moment before throwing the paper over, thinking it would probably be the last thing he'd ever read anyway. A life sentence in Azkaban was waiting right around the corner.

Harry picked up the paper with a shaking hand, his eyes blurring over the article. "I need my glasses."

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, annoyed. "You don't wear glasses."

_What the fuck? _Harry looked back at the newspaper, quickly deciding not to bother arguing with such blatant stupidity. There was no way in hell the Auror could have ever gotten away with being that unobservant. Perhaps it wasn't Shacklebolt at all, Harry thought. Most likely it was a Death Eater taking Poly Juice potion, or under some other misguided disguise. In fact, Harry reasoned, he had probably been captured by Voldemort. That explained it. Now he would just have to play along until he figured out a way to escape.

Surprisingly though, Harry didn't find it too hard to see the words in the article now that he looked closely, and the picture of himself wasn't wearing glasses either. Harry stared again at the picture, quite satisfied - there wasn't even a scar on his forehead, his most famous and recognized feature. The newspaper was obviously a fake and a lousy one at that. They hadn't even bothered to get a real photo of him! Harry smirked.

_Lights Victory on Right-Hand Man_

_Report by Special Correspondence, Rita Skeeter_

_The Wizarding world will sleep peacefully tonight knowing that Harry Potter, right-hand man of You-Know-Who, has been captured at last. The most unlikely Death Eater, coming from a good and loving family dedicated to the Light, has been on the Ministry's 'Most Wanted' list since June of last year._

_Potter has risen quickly amongst the ranks of Death Eaters since leaving Hogwarts in his fifth year, You-Know-Who putting his strong magical gift to the worst offences._

_Last night Potter was found with his school-hood friend Draco Malfoy, also a known and wanted Death Eater, having tortured then murdered his muggle relatives in Surrley. A squib (at present time wishing to remain anonymous) living down the street from where the attack took place, heard sounds of the brutal abuse in the quiet muggle neighbourhood and notified Auror's immediately. By the time the Auror's had arrived all three muggles were dead. Malfoy was quick to disapparate, but Potter was in such a drunkenly insane state he was easily stupified and taken in to the Ministry._

_Potter will go to trial shortly that will inevitably end with a life sentence in Azkaban. The specific charges on which he is being held have yet to be released, but at least eight allegations of murder have already been approved._

_You may ask, with such an upbringing as Potters', what could possibly have gone so wrong?_

_And in answer to that I leave you with a few words of caution. In times as dark and uncaring as these, where faith and trust and hope are fast diminishing, where families are frayed, justice forgotten and morality unkind; no-one is safe. No-one is innocent. No-one can be trusted. And no-one can really be quite sure of anything._

Harry's mind reeled.

Voldemort must be stark-raving mad to have come up with this! Completely bonkers. What was the point in it all? Making a stupid newspaper and getting some other lunatic to dress up as Kingsley … It made no bloody sense. The whole thing was completely preposterous. What were they trying to do, brainwash him?

"Well then?" Shacklebolt asked, quite disinterested. Nothing that came out of the boy's mouth could be trusted anyhow. "What do you have to say about that?"

Harry threw the paper back with as much force as he could muster. It hit the wall to the right of Shacklebolt with a slap, falling to ground.

"I've had enough. I want to see him, now."

Kingsley sighed. "The problem is, I don't think Remus will want to see _you_, Harry -"

"As if I want another bloody imposter!" Harry yelled, rolling his eyes at Kingsley's bewildered look. "I know you serve Voldemort," he laughed airily as Kingsley flinched, "and I want to see him, _now_. Enough messing around."

Kingsley leant back in his chair, pretending the outburst had not disturbed him and opened the paper again, determined to ignore the juvenile for good this time around. "You really are crazy," he muttered, fingering his wand through the fabric of his robes.

"Crazy? Me! As if you're one to talk!" Harry glared at the newspaper, his splitting headache only increasing as the nightmare went on and on._ Shouldn't he have woken up already?_ "Thinking you could fool me into thinking I've done all those things - that _I'm_ a Death Eater! I suppose I was under the Imperius curse or something, right? Well, I'm not that gullible! I know I haven't done anything."

Shacklebolt made no response.

"What's the point in keeping me here?"

Harry gave another violent tug on the handcuff, his skin breaking under the metal. "I'd rather he just killed me and got it over with."

"So would I."

"Brilliant, glad we agree on _something_," Harry rolled his eyes and kept tugging on the handcuff, attempting to dislodge the rail from where is was secured to the bed. Blood began to form around the crease of his wrist, folding under the cuff, irritating Harry more.

_He wasn't asleep. He wasn't about to wake up. _

"Stop it."

"No."

Slowly, Kingsley lowered his paper. This would have to be the most heart wrenching ordeal he'd had in a long while - to think, poor Lily and James - and all he was meant to do was watch the stupid brat. He'd never been particularly close to the couple's only child, but James he'd known for years as a fellow Auror and the family had always been in the Order, as close to Dumbledore as you could get. "If you honestly believe you aren't a Death Eater, Harry, explain the mark on your arm."

Harry looked down at his left forearm, his wrist rubbed red and dripping. At first glance it wasn't even noticeable, but as Harry stared hard at his pale skin a pink glow of the familiar skull and snake symbol became clearer, darker - more painful, intoxicating, frightening. Harry's heart thumped harder in his chest.

"This has never been here before," he hissed, glaring at Shacklebolt, fighting the first bout of real, uncontrollably intense panic growing inside of him. It had been a ridiculous façade to begin with, but they were definitely pushing it too far now. Actually _marking_ the Boy-Who-Lived and then pretending like he was one of _them_!

"You put it there," Harry accused.

"Oh, really?" Kingsley went back to his paper, albeit a little unsettled by the boy's relentless lies. "Do you deny knowing Mr Malfoy too, then?"

"Of course not! We went to school together, but I hate him! I've always hated him!" Harry rolled his eyes again in exasperation. "What, I'm supposed to believe we're little Death Eater buddies, am I? You couldn't come up with anyone any better? Personally, I think Pansy Parkinson might be slightly more believable."

"And last night? You have no memory of murdering your relatives in Surrley, I suppose?"

"That was a dream. It didn't really happen. And you must have planted it in my mind, eh? Now it's making sense." Harry closed his eyes tightly shut, wishing to believe that he was somewhere, anywhere else, and if he could perhaps only go back to sleep he'd wake up again at the Dursleys, where Ron and Hermione would soon be arriving and their search for the Horcruxes' would begin, like they'd been planning for all summer …

Shacklebolt's frown deepened and he brought the _Daily Prophet_ up once again to hide his face. Was it possible Harry was telling the truth, that he honestly didn't believe or remember that he had committed those horrid crimes?

Perhaps he was in denial.

Either that or psychotic.

… … … …

"Why did he do it, then?" said Harry, who felt numb and cold. "Why did he try and kill me as a baby? He should have waited to see whether Neville or I looked more dangerous when we were older and tried to kill whoever it was then -"

HPatOotP, pg 743.

… … … …

Voldemort heard the complete prophecy.

A timeline was corrupted, tainted - doomed.

Fate was beaten.

Destiny washed away.

_Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer._

… … … …

… _either must die at the hand of the other…_

… … … …

**…pppqqq…**

A/N: Reviews are always appreciated, of course.


	2. Chapter 1

Summary: (AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry Alive!Parents

Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling. Hail.

**Return To Reality**

… … … …

Chapter One: Bitter Sweet

… … … …

_It is often said that the first five years of ones life shape the person they are to become. Abused, neglected and unloved, the Harry Potter of canon became the perfect Gryffindor. Brave, daring, Dumbledore's man through and through._

_So what if Harry hadn't grown up with the Dursley's? What if he had been supported, doted upon and beloved? Could we presume to think that the opposite effect would have occurred…_

_And if Voldemort had heard the whole prophecy … And he had waited._

_Always watching, always lurking._

_Waiting, planing, manipulating. Until the chance had come to strike…_

… … … …

It wasn't really a great surprise to anyone who knew the Potter's when Harry, Lily and James' only child, was sorted into Slytherin. A house notorious for turning out only the Darkest of Wizards. And it wasn't that Harry was presenting those particularly 'evil' Slytherin qualities. Of course, how could he, with parents as righteous and Gryffindor as his own? It was just that Harry, even as a very young child, had always been a little different.

A little odd. A little devious. A little cunning.

But putting aside all the prejudice against the house, all the wayward views and dodgy friends of their son, Lily and James retained their faith in Harry. Rock solid, never doubted, never wavering. They weren't worried. They knew that Harry would never, ever betray them.

And then came the day when he did.

_Or did he?_

… … … …

… _February, 1995. Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts …_

… … … …

Harry sat, slouched over the desk, hitting his quill mindlessly over the blank parchment in front of him.

_Tap…_

_Tap…_

Around him other quills scratched away, dutifully recording notes from Professor Binns' monotonous preaching.

_Tap…_

Harry glared for a moment at the bushy head in front of him, so intent on ignoring his tapping. Hermione-knows-it-all-but-has-no-friends-Granger. She paused, her eyes unfocused, sensing his gaze on the back of her head. But she didn't turn around. He wondered why … she couldn't be afraid, could she? Not afraid of him?

_Tap…_

Her cheeks flushed, her gaze turned downward, she shifted uneasily in her seat.

But still she would not confront him.

_Tap…_

Afraid. Of him. Just like Harry was steadily becoming afraid of himself.

_Tap…_

Draco, sitting next to Harry, snatched the quill vehemently out of his hand. The blond glared furiously at his friend. Harry only shrugged in reply, slowly taking his quill back. He frowned, examining Malfoy under his lashes, thinking on what could possibly be making him so agitated, so edgy - so unlike his usual uncaring self. He'd been acting weird for days now … brooding, silent and stony. It was something Draco knew that Harry didn't, Harry was sure, and his friend was being unusually tight-lipped with his information.

Could it be … was it possible … that he was _nervous_? That Draco was scared too?

Of course, a lot of people were scared in those times. There was a Dark Lord at large, said to be the most evil wizard the world had ever seen. It was common knowledge that the prestigious Malfoy family was in the thick of the war, rumoured to be elite members of Voldemort's innermost circle of conformance.

Draco looked up suddenly, catching Harry's eye. They stared each other out for a moment, bright green on blue-grey. And Harry wondered, for the first time in five years, why exactly they were friends.

No, Harry shook his head, breaking the contact. Draco would tell him if it was something that concerned Harry. Draco couldn't do that … he wouldn't sell Harry out, not for anything … Draco would tell him … warn him, at the very least …

Harry returned to his scrutiny of Granger's ugly, bushy head. He was worried. He pondered what would happen if he wrote to his parents, or Sirius, or Remus, or Peter. Hell, even Dumbledore.

Anyone Harry knew would be only too keen to listen to him tattle away about a Malfoy. None of the incredulous 'Order of the Phoenix' members approved of the friendship, even if their opinions weren't openly voiced - it was painfully obvious. Harry definitely wouldn't put it past any of them to try and extract information from him on the family; secrets, hopes, business, even recruit Harry to spy on them. Everyone was becoming overly suspicious as of late - they knew there was a traitor amongst them. Caution was long ago considered essential in all matters. But while loyalty had never been a particularly strong quality in Slytherin, neither had betrayal. Perhaps Harry could ask Snape … But no, the teacher was definitely not fond of Harry, and Harry wasn't completely sure of which side the Professor was on.

Harry sighed, abandoning his trail of thought, and began tapping his quill again. He'd think on it later, if Draco kept the act up for another few days.

Slowly Harry's eyes glazed over and he drifted back to his favourite fantasy; the one where he was the heroic Boy-Who-Lived, the saviour of the wizarding world. Darkly handsome, with glasses like his father and a dashing lightning bolt scar across his forehead. Honoured and respected by all. It had been his favourite dream-world since he had created it as a child, one which Harry was constantly expanding upon. It was his escape. A secret, guilty pleasure. He could make anything happen, do whatever he liked to both foes and friends. Of course, Harry hadn't wanted to think of Sirius or his parents dying for the sake of a more intense and dynamic plot to his imagination, but he reasoned, it wasn't for real after all.

Perhaps one day he'd write it into a book …

_Tap…_

If only, Harry thought, his life could really be so exciting.

_Tap…_

… … … …

"Murphy's Law/_noun_ informal/ a facetious principal that states that, if it is possible for something to go wrong or turn out badly, then it will do just that. Also called SOD'S LAW. From the surname Murphy"

The New Penguin English Dictionary, pg 913

… … … …

… _The Ministry of Magic, holding cell no. 9. July 30st, 1997 …_

… … … …

It had probably only been a few hours since he had first awoken, although it seemed like days.

Days, stretching endlessly on to eternity.

After their firsts attempts at failed communication, Shacklebolt had requested that a Healer come see to him. As if _he_ were the crazy one. Harry seethed, gritting his teeth together hard. His molars ground against each other, emitting a satisfying crunch through the prattle of the annoying Healer. He would not say a word in reply. He refused. Not one.

"- What's the last thing you remember, dear?"

"- Harry, would you object to a truth potion? Veritaserum?"

"- Tell me something about yourself … Kingsley mentioned you thought you wore glasses?"

Edwina Murphy, a chubby witch in her early forties, Chief 'Mind' Healer at St Mungo's Hospital, was grating terribly on his nerves. She had first claimed, upon starting her one-way conversation an hour ago, that she was simply there to help him. But Harry knew better; whatever was going on, he was definitely of the only innocent party involved. Harry began tapping his handcuff on the rail again, a habit he did not know he possessed, tuning out of the endless queries.

The whole position he was in was completely infuriating. He hated to feel helpless. And it had to be from Voldemorts' intervention, for who else could organise such a façade? Harry closed his eyes, possibilities flowing, streaming through his head.

One feeling rose above all else, swamping his mind and refusing to be ignored. Confusion. Nothing was making any sense. It simply was not like Voldemort at all - yes, he could be controlling these people with a potion or a curse, but why the hell would he bother? Voldemorts' prime incentive, since Halloween of 1981, had always been to kill Harry. Murder him, devour him, destroy him; not drive him bonkers, or brainwash him. He was meant to want Harry gone. Dead. On that matter, all had always been clear. Tom Riddle had never been one to beat about the bush before. So what on earth was he doing? What, in Merlin's name, was happening to him?

Another possibility would be that these people - Kingsley and Murphy - really did think he was a Death Eater. Maybe the _Daily Prophet_ actually had published that ridiculous article and others before it that Harry had not read. But then why did Kingsley think his parents were alive? And why would they believe the _Daily Prophet_ opposed to he, Harry?

Nothing made any sense at all. Unless …

Harry snorted. Only that he was indeed insane. And that thought was anything but comforting.

Murphy, taking Harry's snort as a response to her questioning, rewarded him with her brightest smile. The poor lad, she thought, her Legilimency easily sliding through the empty walls of Harry's mind. He obviously didn't possess a single true memory - what he thought he had lived was simply a dream world floating around his head. Probably one he had concocted from his own imagination, and retreated into when he was taken under a curse. It was a pity, really, that she would not be able to help him.

She stood, sweeping the crinkles from her canary yellow robes, and called Shacklebolt from outside the room. He appeared in a second, a hopeful glint in his eye, and together they stepped into the corridor, leaving the heavy door slightly adjacent.

"He's gone, I'm afraid," she whispered, swinging her sparkly green handbag over a shoulder. "Completely insane. I don't think there should be any need for a trial, really. My advise would be to put him on the first boat to Azkaban. Save his parents a last shred of dignity. They are with the Ministry, aren't they?"

Shacklebolt nodded, his face tight with disappointment.

"Yes, well in that case, it is probably best to keep this as low profile as possible," she continued, dropping her voice another notch. "I've seen far less family truths ruin a career before. Only think of dear Barty! You can count on me not to spread the word, of course."

Kingsley sighed, nodded again, and ignored the gnarling feeling in the pit of his stomach, telling him something was quite off. "Yes, of course. You don't know what caused it, do you? The madness, I mean?"

Murphy frowned, the spitting image of sorrow spread over her features. "I can't see any definite cause, no. Most likely he drove himself into it, dwelling on his own ill doings. He simply couldn't cope with the reality of his crimes … It's quite common, I assure you."

Shacklebolt gave her a small smile, turning his back to the witch. "Thank you for your time, then."

She placed a hand lightly on his arm, squeezing gently, and he paused. "It was no trouble. No trouble at all. If there's anything else I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask."

Kingsley gave her a final nod, and the door was quickly shut.

Edwina Murphy, away from all prying eyes, let escape a delighted chuckle.

The Dark Lord would be very pleased with her work.

… … … …

Back in his cell, Harry Potter had made a decision.

He had to escape. As soon as possible.

Looking about the dingy room he had first awoken in that morning, Harry looked desperately for some form of escape, any possible opening that he might use to his advantage. But, rather unfortunately, there was only the four solid tiled walls, and the thick, tightly locked door isolating his room from the outside world. Shacklebolt shifted on his feet, glaring at his empty chair where Murphy had been sitting. He seemed restless; his eyes darting everywhere but towards Harry, who lay perfectly still on the lumpy bed.

And it occurred to Harry then, as Kingsley sat down grudgingly in his chair, that while the cell seemed impossible to break - near impenetrable - Shacklebolt was acting considerably unsettled. By what exactly Harry could only guess at, but he would take a fair punt at it involving the 'insanity' of his charge.

The Auror looked up, taking his gaze off of the ground to find Harry staring at him hard, big green eyes unblinking. If anyone in the world knew how to play the guiltless card, it was Harry. After all, how else had he been able to survive so long with the Dursleys?

If he could only get Shacklebolt a little closer …

Steal his wand …

Explode the bloody handcuff into a thousand pieces.

It would be a home run from there. And surely Ron and Hermione would be able to explain away this mess … this nightmare. This fucking monstrosity. It was probably something really stupid, easily explained away, and it would make perfect sense to Harry once he heard it, he would be screaming that he hadn't thought of it before … laughing his head off, even. They'd all think it was hilarious, he was sure …

He'd wake up, and it would be over.

He just had to find Ron and Hermione.

**…pppqqq…**

… … … …

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, and I give you my apologies that this took so long. I don't even have a good excuse, really. Just life :-) I'm hoping most questions have been cleared up with this chapter, and it's not _so_ confusing now. If you are still feeling completely lost, I'd suggest you re-read the summary. If that's not a hint as to what's to come, and what's really happening, I don't know what is!

Thanks for reading, and again (as always) reviews are very much appreciated.

xxoo


	3. Chapter 2

Summary: (AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry Alive!Parents

Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling. Hail.

WARNING: Very, I repeat _very_, brief sex scene coming up right ahead. I really do not think it should offend anyone, but just in case, you have been told. Thanks.

**Return To Reality**

… … … …

Chapter Two: In The Hour

… … … …

…11:00 PM, 30th July 1997…

_He smelt flowers; intense, wild, sexy. _

_Satin sheets felt like honey on their skin. Bella giggled low, her heavy eyes dancing, dark hair swinging about her face. Slowly - sickeningly slowly - she leaned forward against his chest, brushing her lips roughly against his. _

_He pulled her closer … their breath mingled … panting … bodies stretched … arced … legs parted…_

_Forbidden. Hot. Ecstasy._

Harry's eyes snapped open, terrified and revolted by the vision. His itchy blue shirt was twisted about his torso, pressing hard on his lungs. Harry blinked at the ceiling of his cell, his heart beating hard and fast. He dare not move, resettle himself more comfortably. He had _not_ just been dreaming _… surely. _

"Bad dream?" Kingsley asked, watching the youth with his now customary frown.

Harry did not reply, shutting his eyes tight and feeling nauseous like never before. Bellatrix Lestange. His gut twisted, fighting the mental imagery. He wanted to vomit.

Sometime during the silent hours following Edwina Murphy's visit, Kingsley had dimmed the lights and Harry, while desperate to find a plan of escape, had unconsciously drifted off. Troubled emotions can never give in to peaceful dreams.

"Are you feeling alright, Potter?"

Kingsley had gotten off his chair, drawing nearer to the bed centred room. His boots squeaked on the dirty floor with each stilted step, closer and closer but never quite close enough, his shadow rising about the tiled walls ominously.

Harry groaned, tightening his shoulders, as a previous thought came to mind.

_He had to get to Shacklebolt. He had to get his wand. _

Kingsley paused, two feet too far, and surveying his charge through narrowed eyes.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Harry mumbled, rolling so that his face was turned away from the Auror.

Kingsley took another step closer, retaining a comfortable distance apart from the prisoner, careful not to come any nearer than was absolutely necessary. "Would you like a bucket?" Kingsley asked, his voice completely even, giving nothing of his thoughts away.

An arms length closer and Harry would have it.

_Love. _

Oh, to the power of love. The willingness to believe the best in anybody and everybody. Voldemort's ultimate undoing and the Light's greatest weakness. Compassion. Generosity.

"Hmm," Harry sucked in a gulp of air and wrenched, heaving his lungs dry.

And there was Shacklebolt, just as Harry had predicted he would act, with a bucket in his hand, holding Harry's head to best aid him. Harry almost felt sorry to be tricking him so, imposter or not. Almost, that is.

He could see the wand now, protruding ever so slightly from Shacklebolts' robes. The shiny dark wood glistened, beckoning to him, tempting and taunting.

Just a breath away …

And, without thinking about it, without even realising what he was doing, Harry's right arm had darted out, snatching the wand between long, thin fingers.

"Impedimenta," he hissed.

…11:15 PM…

James sat on the front porch of his home, cigarette in one hand, a half empty bottle of firewhisky in the other. The Order was gathering inside, gradually flooing in from all over Europe. It was unusual to hold a meeting at Godrics Hollow, but Dumbledore had called them there, and who was he to rebuke the decision. _The father of a murderer. _

James took another drag, the exhaled smoke obscuring the little area of which he could see around him in the pitch black night. There was no moon, no stars shining down on the earth. He leant against the wooden railing, closing his mind to the muffled noises inside. It was the perfect time to be depressed, to wallow in ones own self-pity and misfortunes. It was not like any could begrudge him the solitude.

A high pitched laugh carried out from the living room, cutting through the warm summer air, and James curled his hand into a fist, jagged nails digging through his palm.

More than anything in life, he could not stand the condolences of these 'acquaintance' sometime 'friends'.

The pity. The hit on his fierce pride.

He could not stand to go back into the house, where Lily would be busying herself serving refreshments, the life of the party - still, after two long years, in denial of their sons betrayal. Where Sirius would be moping around in the study, his face buried between his hands, and Remus feebly greeting the guests as they arrived, courteous as always, better at dealing with the situation than anyone. And Peter, yet to turn up at all, notoriously tardy. The most timid and unreliable of all the Marauder's, he had never taken much of a liking to Harry, for most reasons unknown to the rest of the group. But, he would be there eventually, of course.

Everyone would.

The polite smiles. _They did not care._

"We'd never have thought…" _They did not mean it._

"At least…" _They were happy he had been caught._

Azkaban. James shuddered. He had visited the prison just once, during his training period to become an Auror, and would honestly not wish the place on anyone. Least of all Harry. Although, James sniggered, the island might just improve Snivellus. A little.

He tried to smile at his joke, but could only force his lips into a twisted sort of grimace, and so took another swig of the cool, tangy liquid. His head flew with the breeze, free from all restraints. No boundaries. No place his thoughts would refuse to wonder - the genius of alcohol.

It had been two years since James had last seen Harry. Two years of wondering. The heartache. The confusion. The longing. If he could only see Harry again, before he was shipped off to Azkaban indefinitely. Just the one last time. If only he could ask him, 'Why?'

Of all things, despite whatever else he may have been dealing with at the time.

Why the bloody hell had it come to this.

What could possibly have driven Harry so far out of reach, that he thought there was no other way. No other options. That it wouldn't settle down, it shouldn't be sorted out. That he couldn't talk to his own father, when they had once been so close …

That he would join the Darkness, despite the very bearings of which he had been surrounded with since birth.

Despite the unfulfilled Prophecy they had told him in his third year at Hogwarts, though the applicant unknown. The prophecy Voldemort had heard too, but not acted upon. Perhaps the self-proclaimed 'Lord' had done the right thing by everyone, and James frowned, thinking of what would have happened if Voldemort had gone after them … had tried to kill Harry … Would they all be dead, gone forever like the entire Longbottom family was now? And would that be a better option, than living with Harry as a Death Eater, as Voldemort's right hand?

But it might have been Harry … he might have been the one to end it all. It might have been so very different.

"James?"

He jumped, surprised, and quickly killed the cigarette.

"Lily."

Again, he tried to smile and failed. He needn't have bothered, really. "What is it?"

She looked drained. Haggard. "Dumbledore's just arrived. We're all waiting for you." She ran a hand through her hair - cut much like it had been in their fifth year at school, the way Harry always said he liked it best - pushing the red locks back from her face. Dull hazel eyes met dull emerald, and they understood each other in silent interaction.

He nodded, but did not move, and she paused, waiting at the old front door.

"Be brave, James." It was no more than a whisper. "Be brave for Harry."

He nodded again, standing on shaky feet. _Anything for Harry_. Even facing a room full of the Order of the Phoenix members, all keen to study James Potter under the strictest gaze, the one whom had been stupid enough to trust Harry with everything. Like he didn't know his own child …

He met her on the door step, wrapping an arm around her waist in support, when the loud crack of an apparation sounded behind them.

They both turned, startled, to see a dark figure hurrying up the garden path. Kingsley Shacklebolt jogged towards them, black robes billowing in a decidedly Snape-like fashion, out of breath and carrying on hurriedly towards the house.

James grabbed Lily's hand, leading her forward towards the other Auror.

"Kingsley, what's the matter? Aren't you supposed to be guarding," he paused, skipping his sons name, but Kingsley had caught on, taking the porch steps three at a time.

Now at closer quarters the couple could see his blood mattered head.

James bit the inside of his cheek, coppery blood running between his teeth. _It could only mean_ -

"He's escaped. Harry's gone."

…11:35 PM…

It had been easy to get out of the ministry, once he'd rid himself of the damned handcuff. The second lot of guards standing outside the bend of cell corridors had been half asleep, counting down the minutes until midnight when their shifts would be over. Once they had been stunned, it was only a matter of getting to the apparation pad, of which Harry accomplished in minutes.

And by eleven thirty Harry was standing outside of 'The Burrow', hiding behind a tree in the small garden, staring fondly up at the familiar house, all reassurances that Ron would be able to help him in mind.

Something dreadful had happened, Harry was sure, but Ron would be there for him. He always was. Harry wasn't a murderer, and Ron knew that. He'd help him.

Stepping out from the cover of the tree, Harry was careful to keep to the garden path, slowly making his way up to the jumble of Wellington boots and rusted cauldrons that marked the Weasley's front door. He wondered for a moment about the lateness of his visit, and suddenly felt quite embarrassed to be wearing what he wore. He wished he had thought to nick a pair of robes from one of the guards.

The windows, piling on up along the stories of the house, were completely black, all lights long turned out.

With a little more hesitation, Harry knocked hard on the door.

He crossed his arms, hugging his elbows, until at last he heard the sound of descending footsteps draw nearer. Harry held his breath, waiting impatiently to be let inside. He needed reassurance. Calm. Explanations. And dear Merlin, he could really use some of Mrs Weasleys' cooking.

A thump, a yawn, and the Weasley member stopped inside of the doorway, scratching his head.

"Mum, Dad? Are you back already?"

"No," Harry smiled, recognising the voice as Charlie's. Of course, he'd be there for Bill's wedding. "It's me, Harry."

"_Harry_?"

The scratching stopped. And with a slight tremble in his voice, Charlie added, "Harry who?"

"Harry Potter. Sorry to wake you and all, but …" Harry stopped, frowning. Inside he heard Charlie take a step back, and he knew instantly that something was wrong. Wrong, just like it was everywhere else. "Charlie? That's you, right?"

"Bill!"

Banging, clanging, more alarmed thumping.

Lights were turning on.

People were waking up.

A faint voice called from high up the stairs, "What?"

Charlie was leaving, getting further away from him. "It's Harry-Bloody-Potter!"

A scream of fright answered and chaos pursued. Voices, high and frightened. Doors opened and slammed shut, footsteps hurrying in all directions.

Harry turned and he ran. He ran, and he ran, and just as he stepped far enough away from the house, he apparated to the first place he could think of.

…11:45 PM…

Number four Privet Drive was in ruins, looking very much like it had been unoccupied for the past twenty years. The garden beds were full of weeds, the long unmowed grass a pale yellow colour. Dead, abandoned. The front door hung limp on its hinge, all windows on the first floor shattered, glass thrown everywhere. To say the house was a bloody mess, a beacon on inconsistency on the tidy little street, would be a large understatement.

And there, planted directly next to the letterbox, was the telltale post of a real estate agent, hammered into the ground that very day, reading in broad black letters 'For Sale'.

Harry was completely numb.

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

He was was choking on the thick uncertainty, the rich power residue emanating about the broken house.

Had he not been here, slept here, just two nights ago? And the Dursleys' …

They were dead. Harry did not need any evidence, of this he just knew. He was sure. It was in the air, engulfing the house, possessing the whole neighbourhood. Murder. They had been _murdered_.

For the second time that hour Harry was overwhelmed with nauseousness, and all he could think of was the nightmare a day earlier in which he had murdered his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. The same nightmare that had him trapped in his cell in the first place, so the _Daily Prophet_ had claimed.

Shaking himself away from these thoughts, Harry stumbled up the front path, the dry grass crunching beneath his bare feet, prickling into his heels, and he slowly slid the front door aside to enter into the house, pulling it shut behind him.

The house reeked of death, of pain.

Of lives stolen.

Harry continued on in silence, down the hallway and into the kitchen. He released a breath he did not know he held, seeing no mangled bodies as he'd half expected. But then, he realised, the real estate agent had probably tidied the place up a little. After the morgue, of course. He went further in, giving the dining room a wide berth, and paused in front of the television set in the kitchen, staring down at an empty beer can.

…12:00 AM, 31st July, Harry's seventeenth year…

Another year, another birthday.

Alone. Confused. Panicked.

The world thought him a murderer. He was not welcome at the Weasleys'. Shacklebolt had said his parents were alive, but by all appearances the Dursley's were not. The ministry was on his tail, set to throw him in Azkaban as soon as they could, and they would only be getting closer to his whereabouts.

Harry's life had turned upside-down.

All in all, Harry thought, this would not be his best birthday by far.

… … … …

"Redemption /ri'dem(p)sh(e)n/ noun 1. The act of redeeming or the fact of being redeemed. 2. Something that redeems, esp something that redeems somebody from sin or makes up for past offences."

'The New Penguin English Dictionary', pg 1171.

… … … …

**…pppqqq…**

A/N: Hi! Again, sorry this took so long (yes, yet again). A big thanks to everyone who has reviewed. You guys rock.

xoxo


	4. Chapter 3

Summary: (AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry Alive!Parents

Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling. Hail.

A/N: It's been a while, but here it is. I give you my utmost apologies at the delay.

**Return To Reality**

… … … …

Chapter Three: Old Friends

… … … …

… April, 1995. Malfoy Manor…

His crumpled form lay unmoving on the cold stone floor; beaten, broken and bleeding.

He could not believe what was happening, his mind could not possibly comprehend the magnitude of the betrayal. Still though, hope flared within his gut. It couldn't possibly be much longer. The Order would come for him, rescue him. He would again be safe and warm and loved.

He would give almost anything to leave this hell, this horrid nightmare.

Parts of the recent days came in drips and drabs to his mind, too may missing pieces to form any sort of concrete idea on what had actually taken place. But he knew Draco had betrayed him. He knew he had been taken to a holding and questioned relentlessly for hours on end. He knew he had been tortured - oh, how he could feel that now, suffer the agony of countless injuries. And he knew that he was very probably going to die.

As if abiding his thoughts the door to his right had swung open, and another group of the awful tormentors entered into the dungeon where he lay.

"Potter, Potter, Potter. What will we ever do with you?" Bellatrix Lestrange scolded, shaking her head from side to side, cooing in her most obnoxious, babying voice.

Her dark eyes flicked lazily across the room, ending on his prone body. Her smile was cruel.

"Is little Potty frightened? Does little Potty want his mummy?"

"Fuck off," his voice was weak and cracked, already fading from days of screams.

"Language Potty," Lucious Malfoy cut in, a mocking sneer gracing his face. "We're giving you one last chance to come willingly, one last chance to make a better life for yourself," he dropped to his knees, his wand pointed straight at Harry's chest, ready for any signs of the boy causing struggle. "It is more than most would get, I assure you."

Harry would not give in; not for his life, not for all the endurance in the world. He'd suffer willingly rather than that.

_Not of his own accord. _

"Fuck off," he spat back more forcefully this time, and tried to ignore the delight Voldemorts' Deatheaters showed at his answer.

"Harry," Lucious shook his head, bending lower to whisper in Harry's ear, trying to elude him, to convince him one last time. "You can _not_ win. The Light will fail … Dumbledore will fail … Your charming parents will fail. You're on the loosing side of the battle - it's a lost hope, a waste of life. It's unfeasible, inevitable. Join us now, if only for your own survival."

He had closed his eyes then, shaking his head back, bluntly refusing.

He wouldn't. He couldn't.

"Join, or you _will_ die."

Still, Harry did not accept. He'd greet death with rejoice, free of regrets. He could not do it, not for anything or anyone and least of all for himself.

Malfoy had then stood, signalling to the others.

"Crucio."

"Diffindo."

"Crucio."

"Sectusempra."

"Incendio."

The curses hit him like gunfire, again and again and again. Relentless and excruciating, never a pause longer than the blink of an eye. He couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move. He dare not cry out, or emit but a soft groan.

And right when Harry thought he could bare no more, thought his brains would cave with the agony, he was brought to again. Saved, spared just a moment longer of borrowed time, by an eager hiss at the door. The Death Eaters stopped then, wands hid back in their black omniscient robes and dropped to their knees, pressing palms flat on the sticky ground.

The footsteps padded lightly down the steps as the figure, covered completely in one thick, silky pitch black cloak, descended slowly in all his mite, savouring the fear of those whom served him, drinking it in as he was accustomed to do.

It was the Great Lord Voldemort, in all his dire glory.

Harry forced his eyes to take in the sight, and knew for sure that the 'man' towering feet in front of his was definitely not human. He could feel it radiating through the air, taste it in his struggling breathes like toxic fumes. The Lord seemed not to notice his captives transfixed stare, not to notice the chill that crept through the already freezing dungeon, nor the swollen, poignant silence that had descended upon all those present.

"What's going on here?" his voice was but a whisper, a thin icy hiss.

"My Lord," Malfoy addressed, trying to bow from his already crouched position, reaching so low that his nose touched and dribbled along the ground. He waited for the acknowledgment, a tiny shake of his Masters' grand, regal head and began talking again quickly. "We were questioning the prisoner."

"Why?" Voldemort hissed again, just as quietly infuriated as before. "If he cannot be turned, he should be dead. I gave no order to other practices - certainly no orders to reason with the boy."

Harry felt the red eyes bore into him then, dismissing his mangled state, dismissing all horrors he may or may not have already been drawn to. The stab of pain hit him suddenly, unexpectedly, like a migraine and a wave of electrical current passed through his mind, roughly sifting his thoughts and memories, reading his life like an open book.

"He may still be useful," Voldemort mused, his eyes not leaving the captives rolling emerald orbs. "He has power, yes … perhaps … power to be great."

Harry wasn't given a moment to respond, not a moment to fight back. The curse hit him dead in the chest, throwing him back against the shackled wall, pins crunching and ribs snapping, and Harry slid down to a heap, barely conscious and hardly alive.

"Obliviate."

His mind went numb, blank.

He felt none of his previous pain, none of the worry and none of the sorrow. It was almost like he was … free.

"Imperio."

He could not resist.

… … … …

_Neville's childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry's had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry's destiny. The prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant. _

_Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy … or would it? Would Neville's mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would … but what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would there, then, have been no 'Chosen One' at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed goodbye by his own mother, not Ron's? _

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, page 133.

… … … …

Harry awoke, lying on the sofa in his Aunt and Uncle's house, as the grandfather clock in the dining room struck four that morning. He lay still for a moment, taking long calming breaths, reminding himself that it had been a dream. Another of his terrible, sordid dreams. He sighed, thinking that perhaps he should have payed more attention in Divination class, and that maybe then he'd know what they meant …

Harry scrunched his eyes shut again, yawning. He would not be able to get back to sleep, that much was certain. He needed a shower, and some food, and some other clothes.

Nimbly he rose from the sofa, making his way first to the kitchen, where he was sorely sorry to see contained not one can of anything even slightly edible. He dare not open the reeking fridge. Thinking his luck may be better off in the bathroom, Harry slowly climbed the stairs, his legs protesting every step of the way. Only, upon finally reaching the top, to find that the water had been turned off - not one drip falling from the endearing taps. Growling in frustration, Harry made his final point of call in Dudley's bedroom, where he let out his annoyance by tossing through his cousins clothes, making a right mess in the process - telling himself that he was, despite appearances, merely looking for clothes small enough that he may wear.

It was as he hurtled a particularly ugly thick magenta coloured sweater across the room that Harry stopped in his tracks, the sound of a car engine plummeting down Privet Drive far too close for comfort. He hastily picked an incredibly large trench-coat from the floor, slung it onto his shoulders, and quietly made his way back down the stairs for a better look outside.

Harry stopped at the bottom of the staircase, his senses on high alert, his ears straining, and it was with another shock of astonishment that Harry heard the car back right into the driveway of his Aunt and Uncle's house. Who would be driving around at such an early hour, and stopping at number four of all places? It couldn't possibly be the Ministry just yet - they could not have tracked him down so easily, surely.

Harry dropped to the ground, shuffling along the hallway carpet to the living room, till he reached a window overlooking the dead front garden. He bobbed his head up, shifting the floral curtains aside, and peeked out into the dark morning street.

There parked squarely in the driveway was a shiny new car, a large bottom wobbling out of the drivers door, it's owner busy hauling bags out from the back seat. The scene was accompanied by the yipping bark of a small, forever angry dog, leaping excitedly to and fro inside of the car. Harry eyes stayed firmly on the bottom, knowing fully well that he would recognise it anywhere - he had watched it, awe struck, rise up and up into the starry air on a particularly terrible night in his thirteenth year. It was his Aunt Marge. _Shit._ What did she think she was doing, visiting the bleak, condemned house at that time - right when he least, of all the times she had blessed them with her large presence, wanted her to?

Harry dropped the curtains, his heart pumping, his hands shaking. He'd have to leave immediately, before she could get inside. He couldn't cope with dealing with her now - stupifying her body to rot for days in the unused house, or perhaps he could tie her up and leave her in the attic - especially if she were as crazy as everyone else had been acting. What if she didn't even recognise him?

_Where could he go? What could he do? Who could he trust?_

Harry froze, his back to the living room wall, slumped on the soft carpet. His mind was blank, not processing his position fast enough, working too slow to form any sort of descent plan. He cursed himself, running his hands through his dirty hair, biting his lip until blood was drawn.

There was a movement outside the door … a key was forced, rather maliciously, into the lock … Harry jumped up, panicking. He needed to leave, he had to go … He must find someone who would help him, even if they happened to believe he was insane while doing so … In a snap decision his mind was made - whether it be a good idea or not - and Harry apparated from his childhood home with a loud crack, not at all sorry to be leaving it behind.

When he opened his eyes again, unsteady on his feet and stomach growling, Harry found himself standing before a small brick house, completely surrounded by a dense green forest. It did not appear that any other lived for miles, and Harry rolled his eyes at his own stupidity for thinking otherwise - of course the werewolf would live in solitude.

Harry stepped up the pathway leading to the front door, his heart pounding faster and faster. He cast his eyes warily around the little cottage, seeking all different paths for possible escape. But the house was beyond sparse, looking to be the entire size of a large bedroom at the Leaky Cauldron, with only two small windows in the front. Ivy covered the cracking brickwork, vines wrapped around the house so much so that Harry thought they may be the only reason the cottage was kept up, stable at all.

_It was not yet too late to turn back … he could hide somewhere, wait it out._

He stopped on the threshold, one of his fists raised, the other firmly clasping Shacklebolts' borrowed wand. He needed reassurance. He needed answers. He had nothing to loose - well, unless you counted life imprisonment - and everything to gain.

He knocked.

Being then just after four in the morning, it wasn't completely unusual that Remus Lupin was awoken then from a deep slumber. At first he thought he had imagined it, but then came another hesitant knock and Remus forced himself to roll out of bed. He splashed his face at the tiny kitchen sink, secured a thick brown dressing gown to hide his pants, knitted securely with shield charms - he was always one to be well prepared for any situation.

It was practically dark outside, the sun hardly having surfaced, and in Remus' experience that could mean three things; an attack, a caller carrying devastating news, or another of Sirius Black's terrible attempts to prank him. So it was quite reasonably that he approached door with much caution, his wand cased easily within reach on his wrist holster. And it was with more caution still that he finally reached the front door and called out softly to the visitor, "Who is it?"

"It's…" Harry stopped himself, caught by a burst of inspiration. The sound of Remus' voice propelled him forward, gave him confidence that his old friend would not let him down. "It's James. Let me in!"

Harry held his breath, unable to begin to describe the rush of fear that overtook him then, as Remus slowly, very carefully, opened his front door.

**…pppqqq…**

… … … … …

A/N: Sorry to leave you with a cliffie, but it had to be done :-) Reviews have been awesome as always, thankyou, and please do keep them coming!


	5. Chapter 4

Summary: (AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry Alive!Parents

Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling. Hail.

**Return To Reality**

… … … …

Chapter Four: A Slytherin To The Rescue

… … … …

Harry Potter did not stand a chance - the werewolf was angry.

It had taken a moment to dawn on Remus, for the comprehension to sink in and strike. Of course, given that it was then still very early morning and Harry did share a remarkable resemblance to his father, this was not phenomenal. But it did strike - hard and fast and brutal - and Remus wasted no more time in hurrying to his own defence; for, surely, Harry's stalling could not be more than another deceiving trap, another misleading flight to evil, another harsh, deluded form of betrayal.

He would put nothing past the capabilities of his one-time surrogate nephew.

Remus's wand came with a flick from his wrist, a spell flying from his tongue.

Harry Potter fell to the floor with a thump, surprise and desertion still clear in his eyes.

… … … … …

Draco Malfoy fell to the floor with a thump, surprise and desertion still clear in his eyes. The cold stone walls of his old home, the lavish extravagance and the blatant wealth exhibiting his ancient heredity, gave no comfort like they once had, only simple relief. Relief to be away from his Master and relief to be away from his fellow Death Eaters. He breathed hard, easing damp cloth from where it stuck to his chest and forcing clammy muscles to operate. He eased his back to the wall, the stone echoing his hurried heartbeat, drumming his hammered breath.

There were three things that Draco most despised, rising high above all others. Muggles, simply because of their own idiocy. Gryffindors, simply because of their own idiocy. And his actions towards Harry Potter, simply because of his own idiocy, the thought of his one time friend making his skin crawl.

And as the consideration of such entered his mind, the latest mission triggered pure terror to burn in his throat, fighting to escape and ready to erupt at any given opportunity.

It had been a long two years back, when Draco had made the honourable decision, done the greatest thing for his family, and sold his best friend out to the Dark Lord. He had then, for a short time, felt a little guilty. Just a trifling. But Harry had come back, and they were allowed to be close again - only Harry wasn't exactly the same. And Draco knew deep down that it was his fault. His failing. His own miserable downfall to the road of self destruction he now lead.

No matter how many times Draco told himself otherwise, Harry would never be the same again, and as consequence neither would he.

But the illusions, the deceitful security of drugs and alcohol, had helped Draco retreat. For a short time he thought he might just be able to live with himself in the dream world. A fantasy land. A vain chimera. A futile mirage. So many words for the one ultimate deception, and only to oneself. His father was not pleased.

_Anything to escape reality. _

Now another task was before him, another great deed to accomplish set forth by his wondrous Master, and Draco wished nothing more than to die at the mere conception.

At least do it, and hopefully die trying.

Failure was not an option, a word unfamiliar to His ears.

Because Lord Voldemort always got what he wanted. And if he wanted Draco to find Harry Potter, then he would attempt it. He would capture Harry Potter and he would bring the dratted Harry Potter back. Back to what, though? To torture? To death? Or, worse still, to carry on -fixed- like he had been before. A robot. A slave. A killing machine. Just like Draco was set to become. Though, admittedly, Draco had had a choice in the matter, and what he became was from his own free-will. It had been _his_ decision, and that was what made the difference.

Still, Harry's wellbeing wasn't Draco's problem. He had let his friend down once, and once too much, but the Harry he had known was long dead, only an empty shell of his former self living on.

It was in the past, there was nothing he could do. Harry wouldn't even remember. It would be a hard enough role in itself to get the stubborn brat to believe that they were once friends, and the best of such. There was no prospect of that friendship ever being rekindled again, not that Draco had any desire to make it so - not if Harry ever learnt how and who was responsible for his demise to murderer. But, Draco thought, his mind pouncing on any notion that may join and unite his misgivings, there may be a way to kill the owl with one spell, even if it was contradictory to his longing.

He would do as his Master asked, there was no question on that. But perhaps he may restore himself somewhat towards the injured friendship, give Harry a leg up with the knowledge to lead his own life and make his own decisions - to be free once more.

Or, perhaps not precisely free, but to understand what had happened to him, and leave Draco of the weighty guilt he had begrudgingly been carrying. Though, of course, after he had been safely delivered to the Dark Lord. Mayhap Harry would be killed by Lord Voldemort's hand then - but he wouldn't get his hopes up just yet.

Because, really, Draco told himself again - and again he almost believed it - he hadn't had a choice in turning Harry in. So it wasn't his solecism. Not really. Not exactly. And, Draco brightened, any way of even slightly helping Harry would be of great effort and complication on his part, and therefore a very great deed. Harry should be thanking him, really.

Such a task was very daunting, he would readily confess, and it was fortunate that Draco was his fathers son; spies, leaks, leeches and all. The crumpled paper in his hand was damp with sweat, the untidy scrawl blurred, but the blond could not bring himself to look at the words. Because then he would know, and there would be no going back, not if he wanted to stay true to his new resolution. And, if he were to be honest, he was high sick of lying to himself - because it only worked if you had faith in your own words.

In a dash of courage, foolery and stupidity, his eyes snatched a look, darting quickly down and up again. He jaw clenched. His gut twisted. His stomach wrenched. The burning terror took flight from his throat and consumed him, mind, body and soul.

_12 Grimmald Place. _

Draco Malfoy could not believe his ill luck.

… … … … …

Sirius Black could not believe his ill luck. He had survived it all in his lifetime, all the efforts of the Seven Deadly Sins in countless evil ploughed against him, and he had remained standing tall and determined, for that matter (if he did say so himself) very handsomely so. But for once, for the first time in years, something good had triumphed over the All Hell world they lived in. His Godson had been delivered to him again.

And Sirius couldn't keep his eyes off the boy.

Remus was on his fifth cup of coffee, pacing back and forth, his disjointed rambling the only thing keeping Sirius from screaming in titillation, jumping up and down and dancing, naked, around his parents old bedroom.

What a funny picture they would look anyhow, Sirius mused, the two of them dressed in their pyjamas, hair wild and frazzled, eyes a constant fix on Harry, who lay unconscious in Sirius' bed. Upon close inspection, and Sirius did indeed have his nose pressed up right near, perched on the edge of the enormous bed and practically lying on top of Harry, his Godson looked dreadful.

Dark circles around his closed eyes were almost purple, his skin a harshly contrasting pale, and cheek bones far more prominent than they had been before. Dirty, messy black hair was getting longer and the once lean had diminished to too thin. But he was still Harry. Sirius' eyes darted to his left arm, to where he knew a Mark would be hidden under the over-large trench coat, but he didn't venture to look. Sincerely, he didn't want to know. He didn't want to remember.

For a moment he pretended that it was a scene out of their lives before Harry had left, and a bubbling, queasy longing spread through his chest. He busied himself tucking warm covers over his Godson, spreading an array of blankets over the dirty figure.

Sirius should have spent the moment getting prepared, knowing that it couldn't last, and Remus' words of reason would eventually take president on the situation.

"We should tell Dumbledore - Someone, anyone … James. We owe it to him, he deserves to know first. And we'll have to hand Harry in to the Ministry, eventually. Yes. You don't think they'll track him here, do you? And _why_, Sirius? Why did he show up on my doorstep? Was he there to kill me - or, faced in the position he now sits, did he actually believe I could possibly help _redeem_ him?"

"Still, you need not have stunned him so hard," Sirius glared half-heartedly at his friend, grey eyes twitching, itching, towards his wand. "He'll be out cold for hours, unless we intervene."

"No, Sirius, don't even think of it."

Sirius pouted.

"You're being ridiculous."

"Me?" Sirius snorted indignantly. "I just want to _help_ the boy!"

"Waking him now while we're still in indecision is _not_ a good idea," Remus growled, sitting opposite Sirius on the bed and burying his face into his hands. "Besides," he carried on, his voice tight and angry, "he strayed far beyond our help when he sided with the Dark."

Sirius was dumbfounded. "You can't just _give up_!"

Amber eyes flashed. "Yes, I can. And Sirius, Padfoot," Remus stopped, pleading in his voice. "Please, try to be realistic. The things he has done are inexcusable. There is a reason the unforgivable's are named so."

"I don't deny it!"

"Then what? What can possibly be done for him now! Harry has got himself into slightly more than a 'pickle' this time. There's nothing much we can do - just say our own farewells and …"

"And what?"

"Let the inevitable take place."

"That attitude certainly wont do anyone any favours," Sirius spat, his gaze flocking back to the comatose Potter.

"Nor will your denial! What can you possibly wish for?" Remus asked, his voice rising. "That he'll miraculously awake to be his old self? That he wont break your heart, stomp on it and shove it up your arse? Do you want an _apology_? For Harry to admit he was wrong and be sorry for it?"

"That might help, yes."

Remus sighed, his anger subsiding in a jolt to gloom. "It's very unlikely, I just want you to realise that."

"I do," Sirius replied, still snappish.

"And what the Healer said … what Kingsley said …"

"They could be wrong."

"Hmph."

"You doubt it? Why?"

Remus frowned, looking too at Harry's worn face. He looked older, much older then he should have. "I don't know. I never know what to believe any more."

Harry stirred, shifting in his dreams, and they both fell silent.

"Send word to Lily and James," Sirius said with a nod. "It's their right to decide what to do anyway … and when to do it."

"I just," Remus frowned. "I don't want him to hurt them. Again. They're too fragile, just being with Harry again might well destroy everything they've built since …" Remus stopped, looking sheepish and rolling his shoulders, rising from the bed just as Harry shifted again. His wand was out, ready at hand, without him even thinking.

Sirius glared. Remus huffed. Harry shuffled.

Sirius' fingers began to tremble uncontrollably, and he couldn't help but laugh - loudly. Far too loudly. Two years of praying for this day, when Harry would come back to them, yet never in his wildest dreams had he predicted their reunion to be quite like this. For one, Harry hadn't exactly returned willingly, and for another there was the sorry absence of tears, tantrums, hugs and tissues.

Harry moaned, his arms slowly moving upwards to rub at tired eyes. "Finally," Sirius whispered, as if speaking softly could compensate for his earlier barking cackle, "we'll know everything."

Remus let a small grin escape him.

Slowly, a bright green eye opened. Then another. And Harry blinked once, twice, his stare moving slowly from Remus, to Sirius, to Remus, then back to Sirius. Then they widened, horrified. _It couldn't be …_

Sirius Black was thrilled, petrified and distraught. Dare he hope?

… … … … …

Lily Potter was thrilled, petrified and distraught. Dare she hope?

When the owl had fluttered through the open bedroom window she had been hesitant, no _unwilling_, to open the attached letter at all. James had turned to fire-whisky as recent events had come to pass, but Lily just wanted to be left alone. And never in her life had she imagined three short sentences could mean so much, could bring such delight, and turn her life around so instantly.

_The 'Most Wanted' Prongslet enjoys his containment at the Noble House, just awoken. Professor Dumbass is not informed. Any Potheads are very welcome, but bring you're own biscuits._

_Padfoot._

She got up from her seat, quite calmly, and ran -hysterical- as fast as she could, searching her mind frantically for a sobering charm. "James!"

Lily hopped the steps three at a time, raced down the hallway, through the lounge and out a side door, coming to a skidded halt where her husband drowned his sorrows on the porch.

"JAMES!"

… … … … …

"James? As in James Potter?" his voice rose and fell softly, stricken.

"The one and only."

Avery shuddered. Snape grinned - if you could call the feral barring of his teeth such.

"When?" he asked.

"Soon." Snape's grin widened. "As soon as you can."

"G..good." Avery stuttered. "I mean … I'll do it. Give me three days."

"Good."

… … … … …

"Good," Bellatrix snapped. "He certainly took his time about it!"

"Bella," her sister caressed. "Don't be rash. You may well not like what you find - the poor boy has lost his mind."

"All the more reason for _me_ to pick him up!" Bella spat furiously.

"Draco is fetching him," was Narcissa's cold reply-like command.

Her smile was cruel. "He'd better."

Narcissa simpered. "He _will_."

… … … … …

"He will," Albus stated to the empty room, his voice barely a whisper. "He has to be. He will be caught."

… … … … …

"He will be caught, wont he?" There was a quiver of fear in Ron's voice, and he didn't even notice the dribble of jam slide off his toast, landing with a splat on his old, worn pants.

"Who knows," Bill replied, shrugging. "He's escaped us before."

"Bill!" Molly cried, eyeing Ginny, who sat bent over the scrubbed wooden table, a saucepan acting as a substitute for her pillow, her elbow haphazardly squashing the butter dish. Ginny ignored her with a roll of sleepy eyes, intent on the conversation.

"Let's just hope he _is_ caught soon," said George. "I won't be able to sleep in this house again till he is!"

"Whatever he was thinking - " Fred started.

" - coming _here_ in the first place - " continued George.

" - And how he got past the wards? Who knows - " Fred spluttered indignantly.

" - What the boy is capable of." George finished.

… … … … …

_"What the boy is capable of has been proven time and time again …"_

Fudge yawned, eyeing the hefty length of parchment in resentment. He need not read it all, really. No, he'd already spent long enough on the dratted Potter brat - not to mention the bad name he was giving the Ministry, escaping from their clutches with such obvious ease - the _Daily Prophet_ was having a field day.

Another gulp of coffee and the immediate death warrant was signed - five thousand galleons for his head, detached.

Fudge snickered. "And good riddance, if I do say so!"

**…pppqqq…**

… … … … …

A/N: My apologies, again, that this took so long. And, again, not too much happened and I apologies for that also - it will heat up more from here on in, no worries. Thanks for reading, and as always reviews are very much appreciated. :-D

xxoo


	6. Chapter 5

Summary: (AU) Harry awakes as a prisoner at the ministry, soon learning he has been under the Imperius curse and life as he thought he knew it never really happened. Knowledge is capricious, reality is tilting. Redemption is not easily had. Slytherin!Harry Alive!Parents

Disclaimer: All belongs to the one and only J.K.Rowling. Hail.

**Return To Reality**

… … … …

Chapter Five: And Then There Were Three

… … … …

They were speaking, Harry knew, but he wasn't listening. The words fell deaf, useless about him, ringing in his ears but not quite able to reach his brain, to form any sort of knowledgeable meaning. So he simply lay there, staring transfixed, his eyes boring hard into the back of Sirius' skull, unwavering, unblinking. Staring and staring and staring.

It quite simply _wasn't possible_.

Sirius was dead. He'd seen him die, he'd watched him fall.

_Had he died? Was this hell?_

But Sirius, the man who looked so much like his Sirius, was staring right back, the disbelieving glint in his eyes betraying that he didn't really think the situation possible either. This notion rather comforted Harry. And so Sirius kept staring, and Harry kept staring, and time past in unnoticed, uncared for. Vaguely Harry was aware of a letter being brashly composed, and a ruffled brown owl sent out into the frosty, dark morning. The sun was still yet to surface above a hash of stormy clouds, shedding no light on the circumstantial predicament.

" - are you even listening to me, Harry?"

_"Harry_?"

Harry started, turning slightly from his position on the large bed to snatch a look at Remus. He blinked. "Sorry, Remus," Harry began slowly, voice thick and caked, cracking from misuse. "What was that?"

Remus faltered, gripping his wand tighter still. Annoyance panned on his tired features, calculating an appropriate response.

"How do you feel?" Sirius asked quickly, speaking for the first time, filling the uneasy pause. "Are you alright?"

Harry nodded, though he didn't feel alright in the slightest, his eyes snapping uneasily between the two. He didn't understand - but that feeling of complete confusion was familiar now, quite the norm. Though, if he were to chose any two people that would believe him, love him unconditionally without any doubt, it would be them. He had no choice but to trust them now - his fate was in their hands. Harry's heart tightened, ready, waiting, swelled in accumulating anticipation. The progression of speech made apparent by Harry's response peaked their curiosity, threads of doubt loosened and questions ran unhindered, unbound.

"Where have you been?"

"Why did you come?"

"How'd you escape from the Ministry?"

"What do you want from us?"

Harry swallowed, shaking his head, ignoring the pointless interrogation. His eyes stung and his back ached - he had his own questions that had to be asked, that needed answers. They took priority. Harry had been right to go to Remus, then. He was glad. He'd explain, he'd understand. Harry decided reverently that he'd ignore the other man gaping at him, the man who resembled a happier, healthier Sirius then Harry had ever known before. It was too much to deal with all at once. The exposure of such an impostor would have to wait.

"I'm sorry," Harry stated, the picture of calm, a sharp contrast to his hidden turmoil, interrupting the jumble of questions thrown his way. "I just don't know - I don't understand anything right now." Harry crossed his arms across his chest, sitting up a little straighter in the bed, braced for whatever was to come, however hurtful it may be. "Won't you help me?"

Sirius looked to be considering. Almost.

Remus looked quite furious. "I think you're a little beyond our help nowadays, Harry."

"But _why_?" Harry cried, unwinding all the pent up frustration that he hadn't been able to set loose before. This sort of nightmare wasn't fair - didn't he have enough to deal with already? Hadn't he had his own fair share of bad luck, of ill tidings? "For the last time, I'm not a fucking Death Eater! I never have been! - You both _know_ that!"

Remus snorted. "Bloody hell, Harry! Cut the crap."

Harry growled, glaring at the werewolf. Since when had dear old _Remus _ever used such language? A bell chimed then, ringing down the halls of the old, creaking house. Remus and Sirius shared a look.

"I'll get it, then," Sirius offered, giving Harry a last stilted, disappointed glance. Harry felt queasy, unreasonably guilty.

But for the life of him, he couldn't understand _why_. Why the bloody hell any of this was happening.

Despite his earlier thoughts of rejoice at Remus' presence, Harry didn't then think he particularly wished to be left alone in the large dusty room with the angry werewolf. To say that Remus was positively livid would be a monstrous understatement - no, his anger reached far beyond that, breached far more personal levels. Harry couldn't think what anyone might possibly do to earn such wrath, such utter loathing from the usually kind, caring Remus.

He really didn't think he wanted to know.

"Remus," Harry pleaded, his voice quiet, cutting through the poignant silence. Remus was obviously at a loss as of what to say. Harry thought he might prefer Shacklebolt's gruff company to this. If there was ever a chance to get the truth of his words through to Remus it would be now, though. "Please believe me," Harry spoke, and he brought his legs up from under the thick covers of the bed, gripping his knee caps with sweaty white knuckles. He still wore Dudley's gigantic coat, the pale blue shirt and the itchy hospitalesq trousers.

He felt dirty, contaminated. He felt plain _wrong_.

Remus chanced a glance at the open door, hushed voices rising from below the stairs, and took a threatening step towards Harry, his wand still held steadily before him. It was quite obvious he had no desire to carry any sort of redeemable conversation.

"Shut up, Harry," Remus told him through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring and eyes suspicious. "I swear to Merlin if you try _anything _when they come up -"

"Whose coming up? Whose here?" Harry interrupted again, looking quickly about the room, and just realizing then - _no fucking way_ - exactly where they were. Number twelve Grimmald Place. Sirius' house. Harry's house. Harry shivered - he had never wanted to visit this house again, ever. He'd sworn it.

Remus raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving Harry, his voice dropping another notch as soft footsteps echoed, rising up the winding stairs. "Why, your parents, of course."

Harry froze -

"Lily and James," Remus elaborated, a touch of exasperation entering his smooth, curving words. "You can't deny them now, Harry," he asked, or rather demanded, his rusty voice dropping to a scathing whisper. "Please, Harry - this will likely be the last time you ever see each other again. Don't ruin it, please -"

And then the door swung completely open, and living, _breathing_ relics of Lily and James Potter came storming into the room, followed closely by Sirius Black breathing down their necks, and Lily cried out and James flung his hands to his hair and tears began to dribble down Sirius' cheeks and Remus' hand holding tightly to his wand began to waver, shaking with uncontrolled emotion. Harry was dizzy, frozen, choking.

He thought he was having a heart attack.

… … … …

There was no way in hell Bellatrix would leave _his_ rescue mission in the unreliable hands of her nephew. Not a fucking chance.

And she realized, creeping up behind the youth, how right her reasoning had been - Harry would never have seen freedom with the young Malfoy's rash plans, sparse cunning. Draco didn't even see her, absorbed as he was in glaring at the empty space that should have been the Black's ancestral home. Bella watched her footing, treading the muddy path that made up the muggle house's front garden opposite. Draco was crouched in the damp grass, looking angrily through the twisted, misshapen branches of a hedge into seemingly nowhere.

"How did you find him?" Bella whispered, reaching his back.

Draco yelped, jumping around to face her. "How did _you_ find him?" he mirrored.

Bellatrix laughed. "I followed you, of course." She raised an eyebrow expectantly, waiting.

Draco faltered briefly, uncertain how much he was supposed - or would be wise - to let on. But then, Draco had never been one to hold his tongue anyhow, especially when in concerned family brags. "Father got one of the _rats_ onto it," he sneered, adding, "tracking spells, as it happens."

Bella nodded, pleased. _Good_. She jerked her head to the side, indicating the Ancient House of Black. "He's definitely in there, then?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Draco hissed. "I can't see a damned thing!"

Bellatrix laughed again. "Wards, Draco. We'll have to break the wards first."

"And then what?"

Bella grinned, a little maniacally. She'd known he wouldn't have given this the proper thought, that he wasn't really quite up to it - such a task should never have been appointed to him, really. She'd told Narcissa time and time again. And so she_ had _been right to come. Fuck Rodolphulous. Fuck the consequences. Fuck the bloody cause.

Harry was at stake.

_Her_ darling Harry.

… … … …

Harry didn't know what to say, or what to do.

The thought that such a scene couldn't_ really_ be happening took hold of his senses, captured any reality of thought. And so Harry stole what he could from the illusion, for it was the only thing he could think of doing - better to play along with them, pretend they were right. Pretend they were real. So what if he was delusional, if he was dreaming? The likelihood of this kind of opportunity reoccurring where below phenomenally minimal, and Harry, for the time, would go along with the scenario, to get what interaction he could from his parents and Sirius. He'd make the most of it, regardless to any daunting repercussions.

And so he stared, just as he had before, avidly watching the script play out around him.

And then he joined them, pretended like they weren't really dead.

"Mum?" he ventured, carefully adding a quaver to his voice. "Dad?"

And that was all it took.

The ice was broke. Tears were shed. Hugs came in plenty.

For a moment Harry forgot, swamped as he was between two sets of eagerly searching, tightly wrapped arms. He was warm, fuzzy, his vision blurred. Harry took a deep breath, returning the hugs, hating that tears stung, threatening to leave his eyes.

"Oh, _Harry_!" his mum sobbed, her nails scraping his back, her firsts clenching onto him painfully. Harry winced.

James let go of him then, taking a tiny step back to view Harry properly. The wicked scent of firewhisky haunted him, saturated through the cloth of his robes. James seemed lost for words, dazed, unable to process what was happening - Harry could sympathize greatly. He caught Remus' eye, standing a little back from the group, wand tucked out of sight, but Harry was sure he still clasped it, held onto the wood as though his life depended on the contact. And maybe it would. Harry grinned at him, but the cheer was not reciprocated. Sirius moved into James' vacated spot, competing with Lily in the hug-a-thon, Harry caught, squished, between them both. For a moment Harry thought the contest might have turned nasty when he lost the feeling in his ribs, and Sirius shuffled to strangle his neck.

The moment didn't last much longer.

A bang, a crash - the large sash window looking out onto the street below exploded, sending shards of sharp cutting glass across the group, flung about the room.

Harry felt a surge of magic backlash from the house, the wards stretching thinner and thinner, pulled and prodded until they broke. A wave of heat encompassed the room, shaking its contents and throttling the air. Remus cast a shielding charm around them. James and Sirius brought their wands to the ready, waiting. Harry stopped breathing, motionless, an arm still wrapped around Lily.

Sirius' mother shrieked, terrified.

… … … …

Draco smiled.

Bellatrix laughed.

The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black welcomed the duo, the front door swinging gently open.

… … … …

The lights in Sirius' bedroom went out with a crack, drowning them in eerie morning darkness.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, his voice a grounding whisper.

"Someone's trying to get in," Sirius answered, scoffing, loud and boasting. "But don't worry, there's no way they could -"

Outside the large bedroom, down the hall, down the stairs, down the corridor to the entrance hall, the front door squeaked open.

"Oh, shite."

"What the hell?"

"I thought you said -"

"But the house is protected, isn't it?"

"How'd they get in?"

"It's Bellatrix," Sirius hissed, shushing them. "It's got to be, then."

… … … …

"What now?"

Bellatrix scowled, glowering down at her nephew. "We go fetch him, of course."

"But we don't know how many are in there, or where they're keeping him," Draco spluttered, indignant.

He was not about to walk into a bloody massacre, not for anyone.

Bellatrix didn't deem such comment worthy of reply, turning her back on him and walking quietly around the hedge of the home opposite, across the wet concrete of the road and up the small pathway towards the house. Draco reluctantly followed.

… … … …

"Bellatrix? As in Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"You should know, Harry," Remus replied shortly, wryly.

Harry felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, thankful for the dull light. How the hell could they know about _that_?

James walked to the shattered window, looking down on the road below. "I can't see anyone."

"We should go," Lily whispered quickly, leaving Harry on the bed and stalking to her husbands side.

Remus never took his eyes off of Harry, silent, accusing.

"I can't apparate," Sirius told them gruffly.

Lily started, frowning. "Neither can I."

"We'll go out the back way, then -"

"There's too many of us. We'll have to split up, fight our way out -"

"Try the floo first," Harry suggested. "Or portkeys." All eyes turned to him, appraising.

Harry shrugged.

"We'll have to bind you," Remus gently probed. "You never know -"

"No, don't do that," Harry interrupted, glaring at the werewolf. "You might need me! What use will I be if I can't walk?"

"We can't risk it," Lily said, her voice soft. "We have to hurry."

James nodded firmly. "Sorry, Harry. You broke our trust years back."

"_Petrificus Totalus_."

… … … …

"You said there were tracking spells?" Bella prompted, entering the house of her mother's sister.

The portrait of her Aunt eyed them wearily, testing their authenticity. Her eyes caught the pair's every movement, weighing and judging - and decisively finding the duo to be quite lacking. Bella ignored her, glaring at her blond shadow, waiting.

"Yes."

"Well?" she snapped. "We don't have all morning, Draco."

The blond scowled, grudgingly obeying. His wand danced a loopy arc, swinging to the beat of soft latin mutters. Draco's wand twitched, throbbed, and pointing up the stairs.

Bellatrix laughed. It was _too easy_.

… … … …

Harry _hated_ to feel helpless. And helpless was exactly what he was, bobbing along behind his father, a stupid useless statue.

He didn't much like the floo network either, as it happens.

The emergency portkeys issued by Dumbledore to every member of his prized Order refused to activate. Harry supposed it must have been a repercussion of the wards going down. Emerald fire, however, leap flamboyantly into life within the study hearth, three doors down from Sirius' room.

"Godrics Hollow," Lily said clearly, the first to leave them, disappearing behind a curtain of curling flame.

Remus followed, giving Harry a last balanced look on his way out.

Sirius and James turned their gaze to Harry.

"We'll push you through," Sirius told him, grinning. Harry was not mistaken by the fact that Sirius appeared to find this situation quite amusing. He was not impressed. Not in the slightest.

James grabbed a hold of Harry's shoulders, pushing him towards the licking heat. Harry tried to object, falling back on his father.

Sirius, unable to hold it in, let loose a cackling, barking laugh.

"We'll be right behind you," James told Harry, shoving him hard towards the hearth, dismantling the body-bind spell just enough to let him speak.

He never saw her before it was too late.

"_Stupefy_."

James went down, taking Harry tumbling to the floor with him.

Sirius turned on his heel a moment too late, but Bellatrix already had her wand raised, pointed directly to his heart.

"Don't you _dare_ - " Harry cried.

Bellatrix paused, blinking down at Harry, surprised, and Draco shot in her stead -

"_Stupefy_."

**…pppqqq…**

… … … … …

A/N: Thanks for your patience, guys, and sorry (as always) for the ridiculous wait. Harry will key on soon (next chapter, as it happens, which is already nearly done). Reviews do help quicken the process ;-) Thanks for reading.

xxoo


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